


Neon and Blood

by escritoireazul



Category: Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Background Character Death, Blood Drinking, F/F, Face-Sitting, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Yuletide Treat, runaways - Freeform, vague suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 14:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13078383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escritoireazul/pseuds/escritoireazul
Summary: Star comes to the ocean to drown, and instead, loses herself in Maria.





	Neon and Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HerbertBest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerbertBest/gifts).



> Thanks goes to my beta for all her work.

i.

There’s an old globe on a stand in the stockroom of the little used bookstore where Star starts working at fifteen because she’s been haunting the place since she was eight. Sometimes, on her lunch break or when it’s slow, she’ll sit back there, breathing shallowly because of all the dust. She never reads the books back there, which are ancient or expensive or both, just runs her fingers along the spines, feeling every scratch and bump in the leather, the gilded letters, the soft covers.

She can’t spin the globe fast, because it’s too old and the stand partially broken, no matter how much she wants to give it a spin and disappear to wherever her finger lands. She couldn’t go anyway. Her family’s poor, and her job pays very little, and she doesn’t have the first idea about how to leave the country anyway.

But she turns it, slowly, touches the rough topography, and breathes in dust, and dreams of life far away from this small, dying town.

ii.

Star finds an outdated truckers’ atlas in her father’s things. She’s seventeen, and he’s been dead six weeks, and her mother hasn’t gotten out of bed in days. The trucking company sent over a box of stuff salvaged from the remains of his big rig, and the atlas was one of the few things untouched by the crash.

(He hit black ice coming down the mountain and something went wrong. He was a good driver. A great driver. Experienced and careful. He still slid and jackknifed and went right through the guardrail over the edge.)

The edges of the atlas are worn soft. She holds it in both hands, runs her thumb along the long edge, thinks about her father’s hands curled around it, at all the times he double checked the directions he already knew. He could cover the country without looking, knew where to stop for the strongest coffee in Nebraska, which exits in Georgia have the cheapest good food.

She closes her eyes, flips the pages back and forth. Lets it fall open across her lap. Wherever it lands, she’ll go.

 _New York_.

Stars considers it, fingers brushing the thick paper. She could take a bus, or hitchhike, maybe. Find a trucker she can trust, tell him about her dead dad, get a ride most of the way. She has money, a little bit, saved up from the bookstore. She counts it in her head, thinks about her options.

It won’t get her very far.

She sighs, closes the atlas, keeps going through her father’s things.

(Most of it, she throws away. She keeps the atlas, though, and one of his hats. The cross he kept hanging from his dash, though it’s nearly cracked through. His keys on their silver keyring, useless now.)

iii.

Star makes it another six months before she leaves. She’s just turned eighteen, and her mother forgets her birthday. That’s not why she’s leaving, but it hurts. Her mother forgets most things. She forgets to eat unless Star brings her food. She forgets to go to work, and for a few weeks, her boss let that go, but it’s been months, now, and whether or not she _should_ be over her husband’s death, everyone expects her to be, or to be getting there, and she’s _not_.

Star doesn’t blame her, but she can’t stay there, either. She doesn’t know how to save her mom, and she can’t sit there and watch her waste away. There’s no money, there’s little food, and if Star doesn’t run now, she’s afraid she’ll never leave.

She packs a bag with what nonperishable food she can get her hands on, then takes up the atlas. Closes her eyes. Lets it fall open.

Presses one hand to it without looking.

She holds her breath. Waits until her chest burns and her heart pounds. Waits until she’s desperate for oxygen, though she’s been desperate for weeks, for months, ever since that cop showed up at the front door.

When she finally opens her eyes, California spreads across two pages before her, and her fingers rest just beneath -- she squints. Santa Carla.

Well.

She hopes it’s full of saints.

iv.

Santa Carla is beautiful and terrible all at the same time.

Star rides with truckers all the way to Berkeley, then grabs a ride south with some college kids heading back to UCSC. The town is nestled in a valley, mountains rising to the east, Pacific Ocean to the west. The closer they get to the beach, the more the buildings are salt worn, the paint peeling. It reminds her of the atlas, soft at the edges and well used. The streets are narrow, the cars rusted, and though it’s early afternoon in the middle of the week, the sidewalks are crowded.

Everywhere she looks, she sees neon and lace, studded leather and ripped jeans, plaid pants and black shirts for bands she’s never heard of. There’s thick eyeliner, and a billion different colors in spiked hair, and heavy black boots, and dirty white Converse so worn she’s surprised they don’t fall apart.

Star’s wearing a dark blue t-shirt washed soft, the cleanest shirt she has, and old jeans, and cheap canvas shoes dirty with mud and grease and oil and things she doesn’t want to think about too hard. Her hair was a knotted, tangled mess days ago, and she’s kept it braided back ever since she gave up on washing it in sinks at truck stops. She wears her dad’s old cap over it, hiding beneath the brim.

Her ride is headed to the house they all share, but they’re nice enough to drop her off near the beach. One of the girls slips her a phone number and an address, tells her to come find them if she needs anything. Star’s not sure if she’s being hit on or not. Not sure if she wants it to be that or just a kind stranger or -- she doesn’t know. She’s tired and hungry, her skin gritty, and her eyes burn.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, shoves the torn bit of paper into her back pocket, and walks away from the car without looking back.

She goes along with the crowd on the sidewalk because it’s easier than pushing against it, and it’s not like she knows where to go anyway. The air smells different here, salty and bitter, like something’s died. She wonders if that’s normal or if some animal is dead in an alley or if she’s dreaming all of it.

They’re heading to the boardwalk. It says so in big neon letters that make her smile. That’s such a California thing, she thinks, and then, but what does she know? She’s never been this far west before. All her trips with her father took them back east.

There’s laughter and noise and strange smells, people screaming with joyful fear from the rides, music streaming out of the buildings too loud and too sharp, and hot dogs and popcorn and funnel cakes all blurring into a scent that makes her nauseous and hungry at the same time. She’s been living on chips and expired truck stop donuts for days.

She breaks free of the crowd, stumbling up against the rail behind some of the food stands, catching herself hard, and then stops. Stares. The beach is spread out before her, swarming with people, and at the horizon, thick gray fog, and in between, the water.

Star’s never seen an ocean before.

Without consciously deciding to move, she finds herself walking across the beach, feet slipping and sliding in the sand. It takes far too much effort to stay upright, to move forward at a steady pace. She’s tired and hungry, lightheaded from both, and her legs burn.

It’s worth it to reach the water’s edge. Easier walking there, too, where the sand is heavy and wet, more solid underfoot. The low edge of a wave washes over her feet, soaking her thin shoes in an instant, and it is bitterly cold.

She walks forward and the next wave catches her at mid-calf. Her jeans soak up the water, until they’re wet nearly to her thighs, the fabric rough against her skin. Goose bumps race up her arms, and she starts to shake. The water is so cold it bites at her legs, and as the fog comes in off the ocean, too fast to believe, it feels like it settles into her lungs, drowning her even with her head so far above water.

Star stands there long enough the fog surrounds her. The waves get higher, slowly, and she eventually has to take a couple steps back or let herself be swept away. She can feel the fog against her bare skin, and she wraps her arms across her stomach. Clutches at herself.

But doesn’t leave the water. Breathes the fog deep. Waits -- to freeze or fall or drown.

v.

“Drowning burns,” a voice says. Star is too numb to properly react. “There are less painful ways.”

Star turns, her movements sluggish. She feels like her blood has frozen in her veins, her muscles locked tight. Her jeans are now wet to the waist, and she can’t remember when she lost feeling in her feet.

“Freezing’s almost as bad.” The speaker is a girl about Star’s age wearing crisp dark jeans and a spangled red shirt under a heavy leather jacket. Her skin is brown, her hair black and tightly curly, and she’s short, nearly half a foot shorter than Star, who isn’t all that tall herself.

“How,” Star starts, but her tongue is too big and her lips feel frozen shut. She tries to lick them, forces them open. Swallows, but her mouth is dry. “How do you know?” she manages at last.

“You learn about death around here.” It’s cryptic, and Star wonders, an absent minded, distant thought, whether she should be afraid. Then the girl smiles and offers her coat, and Star’s worry, slight and muffled as it is, drains away.

(She should know she can’t trust a pretty face, she’s had her heart broken before, but she’ll never learn. Not as long as she lives. Not after that, either.)

The coat is warm from the girl's body heat and smells like vanilla and coconut and something else Star can’t identify, something not quite as sweet, something metallic.

“I’m Maria,” the girl says, still smiling, and she doesn’t seem to feel the cold, even though her arms are bare now, and when she moves, her shirt is short enough it shows flashes of her stomach.

“Star.”

“Hello, Star,” Maria says. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

For a brief, terrible, wonderful moment, Star stares at that strip of bared stomach and thinks of all the ways they could get warm together. Wonders how she would taste, and whether she would talk through it, and how good she is with her tongue and fingers.

She looks up and finds Maria watching her, that soft smile gone smug. Star’s cheeks heat, and that makes her skin feel too tight, and she realizes that yes, she may actually be in danger here. Yes, she may actually be so cold she’s in trouble. Yes, Maria’s pretty face and smooth skin may be her weakness.

Star doesn’t care. When Maria holds out her hand, Star takes it and follows her into the growing darkness.

vi.

Maria doesn’t kill her.

Instead, she takes her to a tiny little apartment a few blocks from the ocean, lets her spend a long time in a warm shower (warns her not to make it too hot), gives her dry clothes to wear (a skirt, because none of Maria’s pants are long enough, and a soft white tank top, and a fuzzy sweater, and socks that are just a little too small), and makes them both hot tea. They sit together in silence while they drink, while Star thaws and casts surreptitious glances around the place.

It’s all one big room except for the bathroom. The bedroom space is separated from the rest by a light curtain of dark lace and velvet, the kitchen has one window overlooking the ocean, and there is no table, just a low couch and big pillows on the floor and soft throw rugs everywhere.

“You’re new here,” Maria tells her at last. It should be a question, but then Star reconsiders. Maria fits this place, soft edges, wide smile, sharp eyes, in a way Star does not. Probably, she looks like a tourist, or a runaway. She’s both and neither at the same time.

Star nods. Wraps her fingers around her mug. Her tea is almost gone, only the dregs left, and the mug is no longer warm, but it gives her something to do.

Maria watches her for a long time, and Star tries not to fidget under her attention. “You don’t have to tell me about it,” she says, and Star knows Maria means her past. “But you can if you want.” She doesn’t give Star time to respond just then -- not that she would have -- before she adds, “Do you want work?”

Star hasn’t actually thought that far ahead. She’s almost out of money, and she has no place to stay, and it’s too cold to live on the beach. Maybe she could hide under the Boardwalk. Maybe she should just walk out into the ocean until she disappears into salt and sea.

“Yeah,” she says instead. “Sure.” Then, because she knows she should, and because, she realizes, she means it, she adds, “Thanks.”

*

The next day, Maria takes Star with her to the video store where she works, and suddenly Star works there too, just like that. The owner, Max, doesn’t come in until late that evening to do the books and check on them. He smiles at Star, warm and open, and tells her that she’s welcome.

“He’s really into treating his employees like family,” Maria warns her. There’s a slant to her smile, one corner of her mouth higher than the other, and for the first time, she doesn’t quite meet Star’s eyes. “But he’s harmless.”

Then she goes about teaching Star the job. There’s not much for Star to learn, really. Organizing movies by genre and title is close enough to the bookstore that it makes no difference, and the register is simple enough.

“It’s an easy job,” Maria tells her. “Slow, a lot. Tourists don’t come to rent videos unless the weather gets real bad.”

“This isn’t bad?” Star asks. The fog is thicker than ever, pressed against the windows so that the neon lights in the distance are blurred, and the fog eddies and swirls when the few people out walk past.

“This isn’t tourist season,” Maria says. “And no, not the worst weather we’ll have, either. But in the summer, when tourists come, they don’t want to be inside watching movies unless they have no other choice. This time of year, business will pick up. Bored locals. And when Christmas break hits, we’ll be busier still.”

Maria leans against the glass counter. It’s lit from underneath by neon green, and it reflects across her face, catches in her eyes. Her mouth is full, her eyes dark, her expression open. She’s wearing a tube top that leaves her shoulders and much of her back bare. Star has a mercifully brief urge to move that glorious mane of hair out of the way and press warm, open mouthed kisses along that bare skin.

Maria glances back at her, eyebrows raised, smirk in place. This time, Star’s entire body heats, and she bets she’s blushing from hairline to toes. It’s like Maria can read her thoughts, and it’s terrible, but at the same time, if Maria knows, if Maria doesn’t slap her or yell or call her nasty things, if Maria keeps pressing close then--

The bell above the front door jangles, and the moment breaks.

vii.

That first night, Star slept on the couch, her knees drawn up practically to her chest because it’s too short for her. It took her ages to fall asleep, long after Maria’s breathing deepened and slowed. This is not where she expected to be, and yet it feels right. It feels like she was headed for Maria and would have been there sooner had she realized, had she not meandered so long.

That second night, though. They get home from work, picking up cheap tacos on the way (Star has never had fish tacos, never had lengua, never had guacamole, and the flavors are overwhelming and delicious) and swinging by the drug store to grab necessities. (Toothbrush, pick for her hair, deodorant.)

They eat and they laugh and Maria opens the kitchen window because it’s actually too warm in her place. She’s on the top floor, and heat rises, and her neighbors downstairs really feel the cold, she says, but Star thinks it’s not just that. Thinks it’s the heat growing between them, too.

After dinner, after food and beer, they’re companionably slumped on the couch together. They talk, but not about Star’s past and not Maria’s either. Maria talks about learning to cook tamales, but gives no details about her family. Says she was lost like Star when Max gave her work. Promises they’ll go shopping as soon as Star gets her first paycheck, buy her clothes and new shoes. Reassures Star, again, that she doesn’t mind having her stay.

There’s a long bit of silence. Star’s drifting, exhausted from the day and her restless night and trying so hard to hide her reactions to Maria.

And then Maria’s in her lap and they’re kissing. Maria’s in her lap and her hands are under Star’s shirt and then it’s gone and Star’s breasts are bared, her nipples hard because the window is still open and because Maria is in her lap squirming and because Maria’s mouth is on hers, and her hands are on Star’s bare skin.

All they do is kiss, and Star is wet. All they do is kiss, and Star is panting into Maria’s mouth. All they do is kiss, and Star is thrusting her hips up, frantic to get pressure where she needs it. All they do is kiss, until Star is a mess, hair tangled, body slick with sweat, shaking with need.

Maria pulls back and smiles down at her, lips swollen from their kisses, eyes gone darker still, pupils dilated until the brown iris is almost lost to them. Star gapes up at her and struggles to breathe.

“Come to bed with me,” Maria says and climbs off Star’s lap. Holds out her hand. Star takes it, dazed, and follows her behind the curtain. The bed takes up most of the space, low to the ground and covered in pillows and blankets. Maria climbs right into the middle of it, tugs Star down.

Maria strips slowly, baring her skin one bit at a time, and Star can’t stop staring at her, can’t stop the way her mouth is open and she’s breathing hard and she licks her lips. Can’t help the way she has to tuck her hands between her thighs so she won’t grab and push.

Once Maria is naked, she makes short work of the rest of Star’s clothes. Star’s so wet her underwear is soaked, the tops of her thighs slick, and she would be embarrassed at her response -- all they’ve done is kiss, for god’s sake -- but Maria’s between her legs, Maria’s laying her back and smiling up at her, Maria’s hands run across her breasts and down her sides.

Star whines and lifts her hips, but Maria won’t be moved.

“Let me hear you,” she whispers, and Star whines again.

Then Maria sets her mouth to her, lips and teeth and tongue, light on her clit, harder everywhere else, fingers teasing, circling, and Star cries out. Maria curls one finger inside her, then two, then three, rubbing that perfect spot inside, tongue pressed to her clit, and Star shouts. Maria works her and works her and works her, until Star has drenched her face and is begging, begging, begging -- Maria’s teeth close, ever so gently, around Star’s clit, and she works four fingers inside, stretching her open, and Star starts to come.

Maria twists her head too fast for Star to react and bites, hard, into her thigh. Her hand still works inside Star, and now her thumb is pressed to Star’s clit, and the pain of the bite fades quickly to pleasure, and then Maria bites down even harder, sinks her teeth into Star’s skin, and Star screams.

It takes Star a long, long time to come down from that. Maria waits her out, sometimes licking over the spot where she bit, soothing the pain, sometimes gently stroking her fingers along Star’s cunt, slipping her thumb between the lips without pressing into her at all, without touching her clit. Star’s too sensitive, and Maria seems to know.

“God,” Star says eventually.

Maria hums and somehow it sounds smug. “Indeed.”

“God,” Star says again and this time manages to open her eyes. “That was amazing.”

Maria nods, as if it is her due. She’s smiling still. “We’re not done,” she says. Promises. Star’s pretty sure she’ll shatter into tiny pieces if Maria makes her come again, but that’s not what Maria means. Maria’s climbing across her chest, sliding forward so her thighs are on either side of Star’s head. Her cunt is wet, the tight black curls absolutely soaked, and she smells like salt and sex and vanilla and something else -- but then she’s settled over Star’s mouth and Star stops trying to figure it out. Stops thinking about anything but Maria above her, squirming and wet.

Star puts her hands on Maria’s ass to hold her in place and works her mouth between Maria’s lips. Circles her clit with her tongue, never quite brushing over it, then slips her tongue inside Maria, where she’s warmest and wettest. Alternates, back and forth, back and forth, and above her Maria is crying out, and Star’s chest is tight because she’s too busy to really breathe.

She pushes at Maria’s hips until Maria raises up a little and Star can slip her fingers through the wetness between her legs. Then she leaves one hand on Maria’s hip to help her balance, not that Maria seems to need it, and with the other works a slick finger inside Maria's ass. Maria shouts and thrusts back. Star gets a second finger inside, focuses on Maria’s clit, and soon she’s coming hard against Star’s mouth, rubbing her wetness all over Star’s face. Star holds her in place, hand on her hip, fingers in her ass, and keeps going, keeps fucking Maria against her face, keeps licking and sucking until Maria comes again and again and again.

Star never quite manages to get Maria off as hard as she did Star, but it’s their first time together. She has plenty of time to practice.

They sleep that night curled together, slick with sweat and each other, and the room smells of sex and vanilla and that something else Star can never name.

viii.

They go on like that for nearly a month, working together, eating together, fucking together, and each night Max comes into the store to do the books, he smiles at them, says he’s glad they’re getting along so well, compliments Star’s work. She blushes and thanks him and says she’s not doing much at the store, not really, it’s all Maria, but sometimes, when he’s shut himself inside his office, she thinks maybe he’s not talking about her alphabetization, her organizational skills. Maybe he’s talking about something else, something he should know nothing about.

Then Maria puts her hand on Star’s hip, lets her fingers dip just under the edge of Star’s new skirt, smiles at her, and Star’s strange thoughts fade away.

*

Some days, Maria drags, yawning, leaning hard against the glass counter, sometimes napping in the stockroom. At first, Star thinks it’s because they’re spending most of the night fucking, and it makes her smile to herself, a little guilty, a lot smug.

But _Star’s_ not tired all the time, and some days, Maria is full of energy even if they haven’t slept.

Some days, she wears sunglasses even inside the store and there’s a strange gray cast to her brown skin. Some days, she’s luminous, eyes and skin bright, smile frequent. Star wonders if she’s sick. Wonders if there’s something wrong on the bad days. Wonders and wonders and wonders, but doesn’t ask.

They don’t talk about their pasts. They don’t talk about their futures. They talk about the things they like, in the bed and out of it, and they spend a great deal of time naked. Star’s thighs are marked with Maria’s bites, and sometimes she drifts into daydreams about her mouth. Those days, Maria smirks at her, and kisses her quickly, and brushes up against her unnecessarily whenever they’re in the same place.

“Are you okay?” Star finally asks on one of the bad days.

Maria lowers her sunglasses, squints at Star. Pats her arm. “I’m fine,” she says, and even her voice sounds worn thin. “Don’t worry.” She kisses Star, a soft, gentle press of her mouth that is gone too soon and far different from all their other kisses.

Star smiles. Star nods.

Star worries.

ix.

Star’s been in Santa Carla nearly three months before she learns the truth.

It starts with the little things she sees around town. It’s slow enough that Max, gentle and reluctant, asked if they would split their shifts. Star takes the day shift and Maria the night. This leaves Star with a few hours of light after she’s done. At first, she stays on the pier, walking past the stores, staring in their windows, waiting for Maria.

Then, she wanders over to the boardwalk. Eats cotton candy sometimes, because Maria likes to kiss the sweetness from her lips. Looks at the tattoos and the wild hair and the neon lights. Buys silver rings that ladder her fingers. Fake silver, but she’s always been able to wear cheap metals without her skin turning green.

Finally, she braces herself and heads into town, away from the world built for tourists and into the real Santa Carla. There are little shops with crowded windows and beautiful, inexpensive clothes; cheap food that makes her mouth water; and a used bookstore packed full of books and a smell that reminds her of home.

She finds the tarot cards there, a well-used deck that is worn and faded. The owner, whose name Star never asks, is an old hippie, and she smiles at Star, gives them to her.

“You can’t buy your own,” she says. “They won’t work right.”

Star’s never heard that before, but she used to love this local fortune teller back home. He was the first gay person she ever met, and his house smelled of incense and weed all the time, and he read her fortune for her for free even though he charged most people.

(“We need to stick together,” he told her as he carefully lined his eyes with dark liner. They drove three hours that night to the nearest big city. The club was hidden down an alley, and the bouncer just inside didn’t card her. She drank too much and had sex for the first time, a pretty girl with dark lips and glitter on her cheeks kneeling in the bathroom, her mouth and hands on Star’s cunt, and Star bit her lips raw, savaged her own hands so she wouldn’t scream.)

“Thank you,” she says, and takes the cards in their thin silk pouch. There’s a book that goes with them, but she ignores it at first. Sits on a sun- and salt-faded wooden bench overlooking the ocean and flips through the cards. Lets her fingers linger over their soft edges and her thumb brush over the images.

Does her first reading, a one card at a time draw. Can’t think of a specific question, but thinks really hard about want, about need, about losing herself and finding herself, and then draws a card: the Wheel of Fortune. Draws another: the Seven of Cups. And a third: the Devil.

Shuffles, draws again: the Seven of Cups, the Wheel of Fortune, the Devil.

Shuffles, draws a third time: the Devil.

Stops there, shoves the cards away.

*

That night, she visits Maria in the video store, far more shaken by the cards than she should be. She’s not even sure if she believes in tarot or fortune telling, not sure it shows you anything other than what you see inside yourself.

And still, she trembles when she thinks about those cards, and that great horned beast, and the people, naked and bound in chains.

That night, _they_ arrive, blowing open the glass door in a rush of air heavy with the smell of salt and decay, wild hair and sharp teeth and shadowed eyes. Dangerously beautiful boys in leather and mesh and bare skin.

Star shies away, slips behind the counter. It’s the wrong thing to do. Now she’s surrounded, and they circle, circle, circle, dragging nails along the glass. Predators stalking, and she’s prey.

Maria looks at them and smiles, small and smug, lifts her chin and stares them down.

They laugh, and toss their hair, and preen. Lean across the counter to snap their teeth at her, to let their gazes roam down her body, to stare at the shadow of her cleavage. Star wants to smack them, then, wants to claw at their faces. Wants to crouch and bury her face in her hands. Wants to hide.

One of them stops before her. He’s not the tallest. He’s not the loudest or the quietest. He’s not the one wearing the brightest clothes. But he is their leader. She knows that without needing to be told. She tires to meet his gaze, but the way he watches her, as if he knows her, as if he knows what she and Maria do, as if she’s wandered into his trap … she has to look down.

“This is Star,” Maria says. She comes close, but doesn’t touch Star. Doesn’t even reach for her.

“Star,” he says, turning her name over in his mouth. “A shooting star who has fallen into our home.”

That makes her look at him, because she would have never expected something like that to come from someone like him. Really takes him in this time, his pale skin and red lips, the sharpness of his teeth, the wild light in his eyes. The faint stubble along his jaw, the way his throat works as he watches her. The careful way he holds his hands in their black leather gloves. How he’s swallowed by his coat; it doesn’t fit him, not really, but he wears it so well it seems tailored to him.

He stands still and lets her stare.

“This is David,” Maria says, her breath a puff against Star’s cheek. She jerks a little, startled, and David laughs.

“Jumpy thing,” he tells Maria.

“Not so much,” Maria says, and there’s a spark in her tone.

He murmurs something that’s not quite words, then places both hands flat on the glass. His touch his light, but there’s a controlled tension in him that makes Star want to take a step back. Maria’s too close now for her to do that.

“Bring her tonight,” he says.

 _No_ , Star wants to cry.

“Yes,” Maria promises, and Star’s fate is sealed.

x.

“Drink,” Maria says, and Star drinks, holding the strangely ornate bottle to her mouth, gulping the thick, slightly sour liquid down.

“Drink,” Maria says, and Star kneels before her, lifts Maria’s skirt, presses her face between her legs and swallows every drop.

“Drink,” Maria says, and Star clutches the man to her chest, and presses her mouth to his throat, and bites down; she chokes, and she gasps, and she swallows until his vein runs dry and his body is cold.

“Drink,” Maria says, and Star kisses her and follows her into the night.


End file.
